


Diary of a Shipwrecked Philosopher Prince

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Diary, Drabbles, Gen, Philosophical rants, Philosophy, Ramblings, Tagged M for Sexual/Dark Jokes, musings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27114779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Property of Dirk Strider. Any unauthorized use, including, but not limited to: distributing, copying or reprinting, is not permitted and will be punished with decapitation by sword.
Kudos: 1
Collections: Anonymous





	1. October 19th

Should I even bother trying?  
  
I mean... I can say with no small amount of certainty that I have exhausted all other possibilities, seeing as I've gone as far as making an exact copy of my brain to riff with myself. I have rigorously searched every nook and cranny of my mind, shed light on every wrinkle of my grey matter and churned my highly intricate psyche down to the last complex. I can't say I haven't been thorough on my journey for answers.  
  
Yet, some matters persist to elude me.  
  
I've been going in loops inside my head, arguing with my splinters like a hopeless lunatic. I've read somewhere writing it down is supposed to give you a fresh perspective, but this just feels like creating yet another separate instance of myself. An instance congealed in one moment in time, shackled to the exact words engraved here to describe one specific state of mind in a minimal coordinate of our plane of existence.  
  
Sorry, _planes_ of existence, or _iterations_. But I digress.  
  
The question at the fore of my mind pertains to the limits of our _potential_. Just to be clear, I am talking about realistic estimations of potency, not some family-friendly canned motto like "you can be whoever you want to be". God forbid we became _that_ disconnected from reality.  
  
Evolution is a constant in the development of humankind, but how far can it go, both as a group and as a species? What is the best version of a human we can be? What kind of plausible potential can we aim for? Should we limit ourselves to physical boundaries?  
  
Or is there _more_?  
  
Being able to multi-manage my conscience between Earth and Derse's moon propels me to think that there is more than only one possibility of realization of our potential. It's an ancient and battered idea by now that the "I" by which we come to understand as ourselves is only one possibility of concretization of that potency, out of uncountable courses and unravelings that could hypothetically play out instead.  
  
But what if "instead" was actually "also"? And what if we could access all of those instantiations scattered around the non-spacetime, a.k.a. "void"? What would happen then?  
  
Would we even be able to reach it?  
  
Because, as of now, it all seems so distant still.  
  
Something always jams the cogs. Time, waiting. Space, traveling. Plans, feelings.  
  
Happiness... yourself.  
  
...  
  
Yeah, this is definitely fucking stupid.  
  
Alright, time to toss this. Should this ever fall in anyone's hands, I hope you have enjoyed the taste of the schizophrenic musings of a teenage boy, you psychoanalytical voyeur. Let me help you out, in fact: I did grow up without a father and I do fancy phallic objects. Especially if attached to the previous. There, your next thesis is practically written out already, you're fucking welcome.  
  
Anyway, I will try to find a less narcissistic way of doing this. Chatting up the mirror, perhaps. Who knows. And I'm still writing.  
  
Well, might as well bid my October 19th self goodbye. See ya in future reminiscences, dude.


	2. October 25th

I have gotten terrifyingly good at putting on a face.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it? Is what you're expressing what you really feel, or is it what comes more naturally to you?

What are "true" feelings?

Aren't carefully crafted expressions characterized as truthful? They did come from a place of genuine intention. If they have the _intention_ to be true, aren't they as valid as impulsive, spontaneous surges of emotion?

Is there such a thing as truth by repetition? Something like an intersection between sayings like "fake it 'til you make it" and "words have power" in a more concrete way, as in...

Acting something out for so long it starts being second nature to you.

...

And, if that's something real, what's lost in the process?

What I think is that spontaneity is overrated. Why should something raw be held to higher standards than a more refined, parsed, rational construct? It doesn't make much sense to me.

But then... Is that also "myself" , or is my "self" the one managing the processing of those raw materials?

Damn. I don't want to fall back into the millennia-old question of what exactly configures one's personality, identity, existence... The very essence of the _self_.

...and here I'd sworn I'd never engage in anything that even resembled a journal ever again. Maybe I like talking to myself more than I'd imagined.

Well, I suppose this is a good way to register my train of thought and record my progress so I can pick this discussion up where I left off. I'm just never sure how to end them.

Wait, I've got this.

_“What is rational is actual and what is actual is rational”_ – G. W. F. Hegel


End file.
